


every man will be a king

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: Misc-ACE-llaneous Asexuality Fics [28]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: "Enjolras' love is Patria", Angst, Asexual Enjolras, Canon Era, Gen, Grantaire Being Drunk, Gratuituous References To Greek Homosexual Couples, Latin, Pining Grantaire, Prince Enjolras, Revolution, Royal Enjolras, Take that Victor Hugo, Unrequited Love, aromantic Enjolras, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 11:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: concept: secretly royal enjolras who feels that it's unfair for him to have so much when others have so little, so he starts a revolution for Justice™ and Equality™ and also because it would piss off his father the king





	every man will be a king

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsy_gabriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/gifts).



> It's a plot bunny that's been on my mind. So.
> 
> As always, I'm grateful for the lovely allonsy_gabriel <3
> 
> Without further ado: Enjoy!

Nothing had indicated that this meeting would be any different than the others. It began as most are wont to do: with Enjolras standing in the middle of a crowd of people, somehow commanding the attention of all present even as they were engaged in other conversations; bits and pieces of parchment were spread out, fingers were pointed, and plans were made.

It was chaotic, it was raucous, but it was fundamentally _normal_.

That all changed with but a knock on the door of the Café Musain. That in itself drew attention, because one did not knock on the door of a café, not unless it was in the wee hours of the morning, which it was almost abundantly obviously not.

A guard entered, still in uniform, and conversations hushed.

The guard cast a glance over the silent crowd, before his eyes zeroed in on Enjolras and his eyes lit up in recognition. He walked towards them, his strides long, clearly intent on his target, and Feuilly and Bahorel, the two seated immediately to Enjolras’ right and left, closed ranks instinctively.

The guard came to a stop a meter before the group. His expression was grave as he looked over them, before speaking directly to Enjolras.

“The crown prince is dead,” the guard announced without preamble.

Feuilly and Bahorel cheered, and even Jehan cracked a smile at that. Grantaire’s attention, however, was drawn to Enjolras, who had paled considerably at the news, then to Combeferre, who was staring at Enjolras intently, as though he knew something no one else did. Which, Grantaire pondered absentmindedly, was probably true, as Combeferre was Enjolras’ dearest friend and closest confidante. If there was anything wrong with the blond, he would know.

Curiously enough, Courfeyrac too was grimacing, his teeth gritted. Then again, Courfeyrac came from an old aristocratic family, and no matter how strongly he might feel for their cause, it must surely hurt to be on the opposite side from the people with whom he had grown up his entire life, and whose death he was expected to celebrate.

“So?” Bossuet’s voice drew Grantaire back to the scene playing out in front of him. “’Tis hardly any concern of ours.”

The guard ignored him. He was staring resolutely at Enjolras, who pointedly refused to meet his eyes.

The room seemed to hold its breath as several pairs of eyes flickered between Enjolras and the guard, silently wondering who would break first. Grantaire was secretly smirking, secure in the knowledge that the guard stood no chance. This was Apollo, after all. Nobody could force him to do anything he did not want to.

Just as he predicted, the guard broke first.

“Your Highness,” he said loudly, and several heads snapped up. People who had been half-heartedly eavesdropping were suddenly paying more attention than ever.

Grantaire couldn't help the quiet gasp that escaped his lips.

He stared at Enjolras, the man he had admired for so long, as though with new eyes. He could not believe what this man was saying. The sheer implications of his words, if they were true...

They were earth-shattering.

♠️ ♠️ ♠️

Enjolras looked up at the guard, anger evident in his eyes. His hands clenched.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.

“I am under orders to bring you in,” the guard said simply.

Enjolras’ mouth thinned as anger flared in his eyes. “If the king wishes to speak with me, he may come himself.”

“Please, Your Highness, I do not wish to cause—“

“My father made his feelings on me very clear years ago,” Enjolras snapped, “and even if he had not, I refuse to bow down and follow every order of a man who subjugates his subjects when he ought to, if he truly loves his country, step aside and let the people have the freedom they so desperately need.”

“Really, Prince René, I see no need for this to have to end in any more unpleasantness than it already has,” the guard said.

Enjolras revised his opinion of the man—this could be no ordinary man, he who spoke with as much diplomacy and as softly as this one. No, this man was clearly much more than a guard—he was merely posing as one. He almost wished that he could recognize the man, but that would have required him to visit the palace.

“I am not a _prince_ ,” he refuted. “Have not been for quite some time.”

“You were never legally disowned,” the guard retorted.

“ _Prince_?” Feuilly mouthed. “ _Enjolras_?” He peered at Combeferre, as though silently asking whether they were still talking about the same Enjolras.

Grantaire grinned. “That explains a lot,” he crowed.

Courfeyrac was shaking his head. “It explains nothing.”

“It does,” Grantaire insisted.

“Now that I think about it,” Jehan said slowly, “there was always something off about Enjolras. His education, which seemed to surpass even Courfeyrac’s—and we all know that Courfeyrac is related to the Marquis d'Aubergy—for one, his eloquence and effortless charm—“

“Which has nothing to do with his family,” Joly interjected.

“—for another.”

Bossuet grinned. “My guess had been that he came from a vaguely aristocratic family,” he offered his two centimes, “but certainly not the _royal_ one!”

“No one could have known,” Joly assured him, covering Bossuet’s hand with his own and squeezing in reassurance.

Courfeyrac said nothing as he looked at Combeferre, who was suspiciously silent. Bahorel noticed this, and likewise turned to stare at the second-in-command of their society. One by one, the rest noticed, and soon, Combeferre was the centre of the attention of the entire group.

Bar, that was, Enjolras, who was still whispering furiously to the guard, who, for his part, had a nonplussed expression on his face.

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “You knew?” he asked lowly, so as not to be overheard by outsiders. He then snorted. “Of course you did! Enjolras would trust you with anything.”

“The more important question,” Jehan took up, “is: what are his motivations for doing this?” He gestured around them.

It was Combeferre turn to roll his eyes. “Are you in all seriousness questioning _Enjolras’_ dedication to our cause?” he asked in exasperation. “This is the man who spends his entire waking time—“

“And more besides,” Courfeyrac chirped happily.

“—thinking about nothing but the overthrow of the tyrannical monarchy and instituting the rule of the people.”

Grantaire wasn’t listening to Combeferre anymore as something stunning occurred to him. All those times that Enjolras had gone on one harangue or another about the abuse of power by the royal family and the aristocrats… Enjolras hadn’t been talking about just anybody: this was his family, his father, his mother, his siblings, _himself_. It had been his life, at some point, and yet he wouldn’t think twice before giving all that up in favour of those in need— _his people_.

A revolution started by a future king…

It scared Grantaire how much his esteem for Enjolras, already high to begin with, had risen at the realization.

Feuilly opened his mouth to speak, but a shout drew their attention back to the apparent prince. Enjolras snapped something at the now gesticulating guard, before pointing at the door, righteous fury in his eyes. The guard stormed out, face flushed a deep red, and damn if it didn’t remind Grantaire of Enjolras. Was this where he had picked up his penchant for the theatrics?

Enjolras stared after the guard for another moment, before abruptly turning on his heels and stalking back to his group of friends, seemingly unaware of the eight pairs of eyes following his every move.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “Enjolras, do you mind discuss—”

“The last thing I want is to talk about it,” Enjolras shut him down before he could even fully formulate his question.

Bahorel grinned. “Should we call you Your Majes—” He made an exaggerated bow.

“You will do no such thing, citizen,” Enjolras cut him off sharply. “My name is René Enjolras—nothing more and nothing less.”

“Also, his title is technically Your _Highness_ ,” Courfeyrac chimed in cheerfully, seeming to already have gotten over his surprise. When all eyes turned on him, he shrugged. “I've grown up being drilled in these things,” he said casually.

In typical Pontmercy fashion, Marius chose that moment to burst in, a wide smile on his face. No sooner had Grantaire offered him a glass of wine, did Marius start prattling on about some girl or other—though with how unintelligible he was being, it was impossible to tell. If Grantaire didn’t know Marius any better, he would have said that Marius was doing it deliberately. As it was, he merely resigned himself to another bout of Pontmercy craziness.

Enjolras groaned as he pressed his hands against his ears, trying to shut out Marius’ incessant chatter. Grantaire silently pushed the wine towards the blond, who predictably wrinkled his nose in disgust as he stared at the bottle. Grantaire shrugged and appropriated the contents of the bottle, ignoring the disapproval practically ooze out of Enjolras.

Courfeyrac’s attention had shifted to Marius. There was a teasing look in his eyes as he said, “Are you still on about that girl of yours?”

Marius flashed him a brilliant smile. “I believe I may never be free of her presence in my thoughts, my friend, nor do I wish to! She is the moon in my life—beautiful yet aloof, never distant from my thoughts yet unreachable, with a sweetness that would put even the purest of flowers in envy!” His voice was growing in enthusiasm by the word as he energetically gesticulated with his arms.

Enjolras glanced up at Marius with a sigh, before something flashed in his eyes, and he, without any warning, let his head fall to the table with a low thud.

René Enjolras, the charming man who was capable of being terrible, had evidently reached his limits. He could discuss politics and policies for hours on end; he could fight his way out of almost any given brawl; he could, and often did, quote both Rousseau and Voltaire in the wee hours of the morning; he could dismiss the news of his brother’s— _his brother’s_!—death without so much as a blink; but when Marius started on about his dear Ursule, _that_ was too much for him.

Grantaire marvelled at Marius’ unique ability to, no matter the time or place, make everyone in given situation more uncomfortable.

He raised the wine bottle he was holding into a toast, which was reciprocated by no one. Unbothered, he cried out, “The vices of love! They attack at the most inopportune of moments, ambushing one’s soul as though it were but a toy for it to abuse with a relentlessness that could only be matched by the pursuit of Orion of the Pleiades?! The pain in your heart that can only come from having one’s dedication unreciprocated—or worse yet, unacknowledged! Ah, the pain of bestowing your affections upon an unapproachable object!, a statue!, a god! ‘Tis more than my heart can bear! Pity me, my abased friends! Pity me, for I have undertaken an impossible task: a quest for the recognition I desperately need!”

At that, Enjolras scoffed softly. “What would you know about love? You do naught but doubt; is there in your heart place for other emotions—for love, at that?”

Grantaire’s lips twisted into a bitter smile, although Enjolras could hardly have seen his expression, hidden as his face was in his hands. “For love, and more so! I observe what I ought not have seen, I covet what I cannot have. Had I but lived two millennia ago, I would have shared my woes with Aristogeiton. Socrates would have appreciated my philosophy, if only philosophy had anything worth appreciating. In short, I am destined to a life of despondency and loneliness, ended only by the sweet embrace of the Death that is the mistress of every man, my heart breaking still more with every moment that I am parted from her! I am a prisoner of my own mind, of my own body, but I would not be granted the release I desire.”

“What release _do_ you desire?” asked Bahorel in the voice of a man who already knew the answer and simply wanted to see how his question would be answered.

“Why, the release that every man—and, indeed, every woman—seeks in their life! The release from the leash that bind us, one and all, not unlike cattle: simple-minded, ruled by instinct only! He that hath thrown off the perennial chain shall surely be seen as a god, for ‘tis only by the leave of the divine that we may see the truth of our world, unhindered by distractions!”

As Grantaire paused to take another swig from the bottle, Marius peered carefully at Enjolras, gasping upon seeing the state of his friend. “Is he alright?” he asked hesitantly.

Feuilly grinned. “Oh, His Royal Highness is fine,” he assured the brunet, meriting a glare from Enjolras. “See?” He gestured at Enjolras. “He’s fine.”

Marius blinked. “Why—His Royal—“ He seemed at a loss for words. “Is this a new nickname, like Apollo?” he asked in bewilderment.

“If only it were that simple,” Enjolras murmured with disdain, but seemed oddly reluctant to elaborate further.

“Enjolras is a prince,” Courfeyrac said decidedly unhelpfully.

Marius blinked. When it became obvious that Courfeyrac wasn’t going to elaborate either, he turned to Combeferre. “I don’t understand,” he said plaintively.

Bossuet snorted. “If it helps, neither do we.”

Joly elbowed him. “Need I explain again to you how babies are born?” he asked playfully.

“No, but you could show me,” Bossuet murmured softly into Joly’s ear with a smirk.

Joly stuck out his tongue at him. “You, monsieur, are _incorrigible_ ,” he declared.

Feuilly held up a hand. “If you two are quite done being sickeningly cute...” he trailed off pointedly. “I believe that Monsieur Marius asked us a question.”

“Yes, I genuinely still don’t understand,” Marius objected. “How is _Enjolras_ a prince?”

Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre. “You have known about this longer. Explain,” he ordered.

Combeferre gave a shrug. “There is not much to explain,” he said vaguely. “Enjolras’ father is the king, and his mother was the queen. Enjolras did not agree with his family’s values, so he left.”

Joly smiled. “You make it sound as though Enjolras had a petty fight with his parents,” he remarked.

Combeferre shook his head. “Petty? No. A fight? Most certainly.” He glanced down at Enjolras again, who was busying himself with observing a pair of gentlemen a little ways off.

Courfeyrac followed his eyes, and frowned as his eyes lit up in recognition. “My eyes must deceive me!” he exclaimed. “Say, is that not M. Mabeuf?”

Marius’ eyes narrowed as he stared in open incredulity at the man who had been his best friend. “Indeed it is! But what is he doing here?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Mayhap he is set on joining the revolution at last,” he proposed in a teasing voice, without much heat behind his words.

Marius smiled wistfully. “M. Mabeuf? Never. He would rather sell his entire collection of books than get mixed up in all this politics business! Why, the mere sight of a musket or a sabre could chill the man’s heart.”

Enjolras was frowning. “Citizen Marius, your reasoning is erroneous: You may be right in Mabeuf’s current lack of political inclinations, but no man may stay truly neutral forever. Take away a man’s livelihood, take away his possessions, and be not surprised that he may yet be convinced to fight against you.”

Grantaire scoffed as he lifted a cup to his lips. “Fight, you say? Fight! Nay, I declare! The time fighting is not today. It may be past, or it may be in the future still, but know that ‘tis not now. Still, in the absence that it creates, I have found you a new cause.” Grantaire raised his voice. “The over-worrying concerning causes! A cause to take away all causes! I’ll say! I can do you better still—I now propose a solution to this problem that afflicts all—all but, perhaps, for my own person, for you all know that I am a sceptic, prone to doubting everything and nothing, and all in between!” There came a scoff from the pile of clothing and limbs that, one could imagine, was Enjolras. “No, no, Enjolras, scoff all you want!” Grantaire cried. “For, you see, I am the optimal person to solve this problem. Indeed, I may be the only one to realize that this problem exists in the first place, for all that it ought to stir even the coldest of hearts and the most impenetrable of souls! It makes even the cruellest of man bleed, their sorrows stewing in the red flowing down the streets of Paris! The solution, then, you may wonder? Absinthe! Give it to everyone to release their troubles! Release a rain of judgment upon the laudanum and the cocaine that dare abandon their masters, when those need them most! Think, mayhap, of Dionysus, whose problems were resolved—indeed, whose life was greatly ameliorated!—when he invented the _vino_.

“I have little to be vain of. Vain of what? Of life, of actions taken, of actions _un_ taken, of chances lost? I an but an echo of another life, a life in which happiness reigns, having at last defeated melancholy in a courageous battle. Ah! But who am I—what am I—to declare such things? I am but an echo of better days, an echo which does not know better than to babble my business for all the world to hear until I incur the wrath of a god. And what a god is he! And so I drink.” As if to illustrate, he took another swig from the bottle which he had secured, and which Enjolras was studying with no small about of scepticism.

“Ah, but I am but the hyacinth, doomed to wither in the glare of the sun that surrounds me, for but the briefest of chance to bask in its light, to seek shelter in its warmth! In an orchestra, I am but a singer, but though I could out-sing all the Muses on this Earth, I am not worthy of the attention of the one whose affections I seek! I might be blinded for my arrogance, yes, but ‘tis nothing in comparison with the wilful ignorance displayed by the god. Could Diodorus have seen me now, he would indeed have mistaken me for another! Patroclus, maybe, or Ameinias! Ah, but mayhap I am Dionysus! Aye, but my Adonis is distant, unreachable.”

Enjolras’ beautiful face shifted into something resembling dismay. It was moments like these that reminded Grantaire of who he was, of who _Enjolras_ was, and just what an odd pair they made; but it was clearly made worse still by the fact that Enjolras was of royal descent, and no matter how much he argued to the contrary, blue blood coursed through his veins.

Still, no matter which, the facts did not change: Enjolras knew of Grantaire's feelings for him, and still he did nothing. And how could he? To a man as great as Enjolras, who loved with all his heart, his devotion to justice and equality burning as brightly as the flames that might rise up into the sky during the Fête de Saint-Jean, the love that Grantaire had for him must seem like but a candle, as fickle and as temperamental as the west wind. Oh, Grantaire knew of Enjolras’ infinite capacity for kindness and warmth, but that same knowledge forced the following realization upon him: Enjolras’ affections could never concentrate on a single human being. It was too great for that; it was so great, in fact, that it must encompass all of humanity, and consequently no one in particular, especially not Grantaire.

Yet, Grantaire sometimes allowed himself to dream, to fantasize, to _imagine_ ; imagine what could have been, had the circumstances—had _Grantaire_ —been different. (Never once did he wish that it were _Enjolras_ who was different.)

Grantaire leaned back in his seat with a lazy smile, fully aware of the fact that, would Enjolras see it, he would become enraged and redden as prettily as only Enjolras could.

Enjolras huffed. “Grantaire, you are a fool. _Accredis nihil. Auxili an veni_.”

Grantaire’s grin was twisted at the edges. “No, _pugnabo._ ”

Enjolras scowled. “You are impossible, citizen! _Cui pugnas_?” he asked, disbelieving.

“You,” Grantaire said simply.

“Me?” Enjolras stared in consternation. “You jest. Please, speak your mind and be silent, Capital R.”

But Grantaire merely gazed at him in adoration disguised as annoyance.

“One thing is certain,” Feuilly spoke up, his voice loud in the silence. “The king will not remain comfortably on his throne for much longer.”

“Only that?” Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “I would readily argue that there are a great deal of other certainties.” He said it in a grave voice, but the small jesting smile on his lips belied his words. He stood up, and cleared his throat. “I apologize for cutting this meeting short, but there are certain matters that require my immediate attention.” He glanced at Combeferre. “You will do what we discussed?”

“Aye,” Combeferre confirmed with a nod.

Grantaire glanced curiously at Enjolras. “Where are you heading?”

Enjolras’ eyes were acerbic as he gazed on Grantaire. “I doubt that you would be interested,” he said dismissively.

Grantaire laughed, and if it sounded a little strained, nobody commented on it. “Yes, what business does a mortal have in the realm of celestials? You must think me presumptuous to make such a proposal!”

Enjolras’ eyes hardened. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Grantaire? Go home,” he ordered. “Do not return until you have sobered up.”

Enjolras left. Had anyone chanced a look at Grantaire in that moment, they would have seen that annoyed look melt into one of worship as it was directed at the blond leader.

As it was, Grantaire was left to his ruminations in peace.

♠️ ♠️ ♠️

Despite the numerous attempts on the behalf of Les Amis de L’ABC to breach the subject, Enjolras was steadfast in avoiding any attempted conversations about his past. He had thrown himself headfirst into the cause, running errands back and forth, and even Combeferre, who saw him more often than anyone else, could not tell where he was a good half of the time. Planning riots, probably, or the overthrow of the government—of his family, Grantaire corrected himself. Grantaire privately thought that, even if Enjolras _was_ a staunch republican, he really ought to have been somewhat more concerned with the fact that the death of his older brother left him, essentially, the heir to the French throne. But no—Enjolras shied away from the subject as though it were the Black Death itself. He had made avoidance into a veritable art form—and Grantaire should know, the art connoisseur that he was.

It was, truth be told, both a good and a bad thing. Enjolras was so involved in that grand affair with that Patria of his, Grantaire reflected, that he failed to see the little things, the details of life. He was simply not equipped with emotions other than an intense passion for justice and liberty, not having been meant to deal with them—although what god could have supposed that a person of Enjolras’ calibre wouldn’t have admirers, Grantaire didn’t understand. Then again, mayhap it was just _because_ he would have many admirers: if he was not equipped to deal with those emotions, he would not be able to be distracted from his purpose by things as petty, things as _mortal_ , as these.

Enjolras could not love anyone that way. Certainly, he felt great affection for his friends, and in particular for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but he could no more love them the human way than marble could cease to be hard, or a flame hot. It was ingrained in Enjolras’ nature. Enjolras was a worshipper of the ideal, a priest in all but name, chaste to the point where anything but didn't even cross his mind as a possibility.

No, Enjolras could not love Grantaire, but Grantaire could—and did—love Enjolras. If it came down to it, Grantaire would lay down his life for Enjolras. He would die for the man who had captured his heart, who had drawn him into his web like a moth to the flame, and then ensnared him, but who didn’t even seem to be aware of the control he had over Grantaire; the man who made him cry out in frustration, but who also inspired him with every breath he took; the man who drove him to the bottle, but was more intoxicating than any tonic could ever hope to be.

Just as Enjolras would lay down his life for the revolution, so Grantaire would lay down his life for Enjolras.

♠️ ♠️ ♠️

Interestingly, the guard—who Grantaire was fairly certain was no guard at all—insisted on showing up the next day, and all days following that, almost as though he could not wrap his head around the fact that Enjolras was genuinely _not interested_ in... being king, Grantaire supposed. Then again, _Grantaire_ couldn’t, either. How strongly he must believe in that Liberty of his to willingly toss aside those kinds of amenities!

As surely as the guard showed up every day, so Enjolras unfailingly chewed him out every time. The particulars of every harangue differed, but the main message remained the same: Enjolras had no interest in moving back to the palace and resuming his royal duties. Watching that daily spectacle quickly became a popular pastime among their friends, and Courfeyrac and Bahorel soon started collecting bets on how long it would take Enjolras each day.

One of the highlights, which Grantaire had been fortunate enough to be privy to, had been, without doubt, that time the official-turned-guard had turned as red as the colour of the flag which Enjolras adored so much after Enjolras had finished his diatribe. Face flushing, the official had spat at Enjolras that the heir apparent can’t just stay downtown with the lower class like a _peasant_. To this, Enjolras had simply asked “Why not?” before turning around and commencing the meeting of the day, already having commanded the attention of all relevant individuals, and that had been the end of it. The guard had backed down, instinctively knowing that arguing further would only exacerbate the situation.

All in all, it was easily a situation that one could get used to.

Grantaire leaned back in his seat and lifted the bottle to his lips.

♠️ ♠️ ♠️

The second that the guard walked in, Grantaire knew that something was markedly different, if only by the grace of the expression on his face.

Enjolras, evidently, did not make the same connection, although that could easily be explained by the fact that the blond did not look up when he heard the knock on the door, nor when the door opened, too much preoccupied the plans he was hunched over. Grantaire had, in turn, been preoccupied by the sight of Enjolras in that particular position, which was quite flattering to his looks—but then again, no position looked truly _un_ flattering on Enjolras, unfairly sublime as he was—but, at the sound of that tell-tale knock on the door, he glanced up. He could not be so consumed by Enjolras’ presence, enticing though it was, that he could not afford one look another way.

The guard came to a stop behind Enjolras. He put his hands behind his back and assumed a formal stance—very similar to the one Grantaire had seen him adopt numerous times before, but ever-so-slightly different.

Never one to revel in ambiguity, the guard was blunt. “Your father is dead, Your Majesty.”

Although he had been preparing himself for some news of the sort, Grantaire still froze. The change in title did not escape him. _The king was dead. The king was_ dead _._ Enjolras’ father _was dead._

_The king is dead. Long live the king._

The implications sunk in.

Beside him, Combeferre exchanged an apprehensive look with Courfeyrac. He may have spoken, but if so, he did so quietly enough that Grantaire could not hear his words.

Apart from a slight tensing of his shoulders, Enjolras showed no outward reaction to the news—or, indeed, that he had even heard the guard.

The guard was perplexed by Enjolras’ lack of reaction, which in itself was perplexing. Had he not exchanged many a word with Enjolras? Did he not realize Enjolras’ passionate hate for the monarchy? Had he truly expected Enjolras to forsake his beliefs and cheer for the fact that he was king? Had the guard expected him to grieve for a father who had all but abandoned him; who would have disowned him if it would not have brought shame on his family?

“Your Majesty?” the guard asked carefully.

Enjolras barely spared the guard a look. “My name is Enjolras, and I would appreciate it greatly if you used it,” he said crisply.

The guard’s spine straightened. “Your Majesty, it would be vastly disrespectful for me to address my liege as though we were of the same standing,” he said subserviently.

Enjolras’ lips drew into a thin line. “And yet that is what I would ask you to do,” he said as courteously as he could manage, but Grantaire discerned a note of irritation in his voice.

“You must return with me to the palace and take your rightful place.”

Enjolras quirked an eyebrow. “ _Must_ I?” he retorted. “I was not under the impression that you had any authority over me.”

“Your Maje—“

“ _Enjolras_.”

“—sty, I must insi—“

“As must I.” Enjolras finally stood up, straightening the plans he had been studying. “If you continue to insist this nonsense, I will have no choice but to ask you to leave, citizen. This is a free country, yes, but I will not have you sully the ears of our present company with your totalitarian lies and propaganda.”

The guard gritted his teeth. “I will be posting guards outside,” he threatened.

“A waste of the hard-earned money of the people, not to mention an abuse of power,” Enjolras replied, irritation creeping into his voice. “Besides which, ‘tis a futile enterprise. I will hardly adhere to the instructions of _guards_.” He spat the word in a tone he usually reserved for ‘capitalism’ and ‘the bourgeoisie’.

The officer stiffened. “My lo—“

Feuilly cleared his throat. “I believe Enjolras told you to _get out_.” His voice was firm.

The officer glared at him, but Feuilly cheerfully ignored him. With one last look at Enjolras to make sure that he had not changed his mind, the officer stalked out of the café.

Silence ensued.

“Well,” Courfeyrac finally said, “that was awkward.”

Bahorel slowly raised a hand. “Was it just me, or was that weird? I think it was weird.”

Enjolras let his head fall into his hands. “You have no idea.”

♠️ ♠️ ♠️

“So, to recount,” Bossuet was saying for the umpteenth time, “your father died of a sickness, and you have suddenly found yourself the king of France. _You_.”

Grantaire’s snickers were slowly but surely turning into a case of full-blown laughter.

“Well, Your Majesty,” Courfeyrac was snickering as he executed a deep bow, to Enjolras’ annoyance, “what is to be your first edict?”

Enjolras glared at him. “Ideally, for everyone to stop addressing me as ‘Your Majesty’,” he snapped. “Failing that, I suppose that I will have to settle for the complete and thorough dismantling of the monarchy and all the societal norms that it entails.”

A pause.

“You know what?” Combeferre asked. “I am not even remotely surprised.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm okay with how it turned out, even if the language keeps jumping between old-fashioned and fairly modern. Oh, well.
> 
> Comments are the best gift you can give :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Let others rise to take our place until the earth is free](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14284836) by [AWalkingParadox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWalkingParadox/pseuds/AWalkingParadox)




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